


Upon the Stairs

by JustaDeadDove



Category: Original Work
Genre: Paranoia, Shadows - Freeform, Stalking, Suspense, Thriller, horror esque, listen Charles isn't a good guy and his thoughts show that, moving shadows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustaDeadDove/pseuds/JustaDeadDove
Summary: There's nothing in his house, there's nothing on his stairs. There's nothing haunting him or chasing him down. He's done nothing to deserve it.So why won't they leave him alone?
Relationships: Past Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	Upon the Stairs

There's something at the top of Charles' staircase. He can see it when he comes in, looming over the balcony that overlooks the downstairs. A shadowy mass with golden eyes that stare him down. The hatred that burns within them reminds him of an animal that has known too much abuse. An animal that has not been broken just yet. But every animal breaks eventually. He just has to outlast them. 

He flicks on the house light and the shadows disappear and with them the eyes. Slowly he ascends the stairs. He's not afraid. He's never been afraid in his own house and he refuses to be now. It was his domain, he controlled everything within it. He will not be chased out by the shadows lurking on his walls.

And he won't stoop to talking to nothing. 

He proceeds through his usual routine, takes his jacket off, toes off his shoes. Has a quiet dinner in the emptiness of his house. A dinner he has to prepare himself because the one who is supposed to have had it ready for him is gone. He curls his lip and tosses the leftovers in the trash. He doesn't have the patience to put it all away. 

He will not voice his thoughts aloud, he is not crazy, he is not desperate. 

He has no desire to bring down more wrath on his head.

Not that he's ever deserved wrath. Nothing he has ever done has been worth this. Charles shakes his head. No, there's nothing happening, there's nothing there. He turns off the lights in the downstairs portion of his house and unbidden his eyes flicked upwards to the balcony. 

The golden eyes aren't there. Of course they aren't. They aren't real. So what if he had seen them out of the corner of his eye, heard the hissing growl that rumbled in his ears. But those signs were nothing,  _ nothing. _ The product of a tired mind. All of this the fault of a man left alone after his love, the person who should no better than to flee the only love he would ever get, thought to flee. 

He's quiet as he walks up the stairs. He's never been one for humming, for singing. No, he is just going to bed. To lay down, perhaps read, watch a documentary that he won't really pay attention to. Have a quiet night in- he hasn't been in the mood the passed week to go out and look for a soft face, a soft and pretty body. Hasn't been in the mood since he lost him. 

There's a chill on his shoulder, the heavy weight, a heavy hand. Something digs deep and hard into his shoulder and Charles hisses at the sudden sting. He lifts his hand and places it against the warmth seeping through his fancy white shirt. Red came away on his fingers, warm and red. He grit his teeth, fury rolling through him as he twisted and punched at the shadows. He met nothing until his fist caved in the wall. 

Of course there was nothing there. 

Nothing but shadows and the deep puncture wound on his shoulder the size of a finger. Tickling his bone with cold air and pain singing so sour a note.

He went to bed, shoulder bandaged poorly, and resolved himself to his reality. He was alone, he was filled with anger, but he was  _ alone. _

\-------

There's something outside Charles' bedroom door. 

It's been six weeks since his encounter on the staircase. He had thought, had figured really, that whatever blood debt he supposedly owed was paid. He had thought that the shadow on the stairs had left him alone, had contented themselves in their foolish mission. But that  _ idiot _ was always causing bigger messes than he could ever clean up. 

Charles wasn't afraid of the dark, wasn't afraid of the shadows that went bump in the night. They should be afraid of him. He could kill them, he knew he had it in him. They were only human. 

(They had to be only human. Despite everything he's seen. Despite his pretty red-head showing up again and again. And no longer just in those dreams filled with lust and white skin and beautiful bruises.)

Scratching. Was that scratching on his door? The peeling of the paint off the wood? Charles could swear he could hear it curling off in long strips. And there, at the crack under the door, a pacing shadow. The thunk, thunk, thunk of her shoes as she paced and swayed. How impractical, he could push her down the stairs in an instant. Leave her unbalanced, make his move and prove to the police he was being harassed. 

Goosebumps rippled across his flesh as suddenly a laugh rent the air. Low, throaty, and unfamiliar. The shadow, the golden eyes, had always been silent. Haunting and aloof and filled with hatred, but always silent. This was different, this was someone new in his house. It boiled the blood in his veins, the blood that had already been spilled in his own damn house. 

Charles was up on his feet in a moment, teeth grit tight even as that laughter died and the pacing started up again. Who did she think she was, stalking like a tigress just outside his bedroom door. He'd show her, he would not be made a fool of in his own house. 

Throwing open the door, he had his fist raised, hard blue eyes piercing as he stared into the shifting and flowing red sea. Satin fabric, shining and enchanting and the all too familiar shade of fresh blood. Hands carding through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. 

She didn't speak, she didn't say a thing. 

He woke up in the morning with bruises across his shoulders, across his chest. Angry handprints, cruel mockery of love bites on his neck made by nails digging too deep. A black eye and a broken nose marring his cherubic features. 

She was a devil and he hadn't even seen her face. She had invaded his house, and she would pay. 

\-----

There's a woman standing in his driveway as he pulls into it. The man gasping under his hand, eyes half closed in some stupid masochistic bliss doesn't see her but Charles does. A woman in a long red dress. The bitch. Mocking him in that color, so foreign from Bok's hair but so close to the liquid that had gushed from his nose, his mouth. 

The thin man gasps and wheezes as he claws at Charles' hand and he vaguely realizes he's squeezed so tight there is no doubt that the redhead will be bearing ugly marks tomorrow. The woman is gone though. There for a moment when his headlight flashed across the drive and then gone. He grits his teeth tighter than his hand as he finally releases the man. Charles reaches across him and opens the door before shoving him out. 

He is out of his side of the car just as fast and is reaching for the nameless man when he is stopped. 

Her hand is normal looking, but the way her hand curls around the man's shoulder shows strength that shouldn't be there. It is tensed, challenging, and her sneer is wordless as she glares him down. "Sorry, I don't think he'll be needing your company tonight." Her voice is mellow, a mockery of warmth, of Charles as she tugs the small waif against her side. Anger, fury, hatred burns in her eyes as she moves her hand down to wrap around his side. Does she feel it too? How much like Bok he is? Small, weak, wanting and devoted already. 

Charles curls his lip, is about to demand she in hand his entertainment for the night when the gravel behind him shifts. Grinds, as though someone is walking away from him. He turned to glance over his shoulder, but there's nothing there. When he turns back the woman is smirking. She murmurs something to the man beside her, something that makes him tense and throw an accusing glare at Charles and his hands curl into fists. 

Good to know she's not above lying. She's not above anything it seems, playing such lowly games. 

"I'll escort you to the main road, get you an uber." She says casually, already turning away from Charles. As though he isn't a threat at all. She'll pay for that, he'll make her pay, he'll-

His front door slams open, banging against the wall. He jerks around, eyes searching, hunting for the source but there is nothing.  _ Nothing _ but the swinging door. Waving as though the wind has caught it.

He would prefer there was something to see because then he could lash out. Take out his anger, his temper by slamming knuckles against flesh and seeing blood bloom up under the skin. His frustrations would seep out as the butch screamed under him or the bastard garbled his last breath. 

If they breathe he can choke the life out of them. 

Stepping forward he steps into his house, eyes darting about to find any hint of the intruder he knows is in here. The shadows crawl across the floor, encroaching on the space that the porchlight should brighten. Tendrils reaching, like large hands pulling a body across the floor. Charles blinks a couple of times and the shadows disappear and his shoulders relax. 

He needs more sleep. He needs to rest. He's starting to go crazy and he won't become like those broken fucks. He needs to just turn on the light and get ready for-

The door slams closed behind him. Charles whirls, hands raised to- What? Defend himself from shadows? Punch the darkness? He is about to scoff before he registers what he's seeing. 

There's a hand on his door, holding it closed. It is larger than his and the dark skin is brighter than the shadows that surround the tall man it is attached to. His expression is blank. Not thoughtful or hateful or cold as he looks at Charles. 

His eyes flash gold in the dark. 

"Stay away from him." 

The voice is unexpectedly smooth, smoky but detached. It sends shivers down Charles' back and waves of disgust. 

"Who the fuck-"

"Don't even let his name cross your damned lips." The words are snarled out as a hand lashes out towards Charles. He flinches back and by the time they open back up the man is gone, the shadows are normal shadows. 

And four claw marks sting across his cheek. A warning, a message. 

This was never a game to them but nevertheless, he'll win. He always wins. 


End file.
